“Enjoy.”
Jun-hyeok lifts a morsel on his spoon: a neat roll of omelet. Seven years ago, Jun-ho offered the same side dish with the same gesture. That night a window shattered; tears mixed with blood filled my throat. Now, on a new bed, Jun-hyeok’s fingers combing my hair merge with my ex-husband’s.
The scent of burnt garlic rising from a severed fingertip
Never again, my heart pounds. Yet I see it clearly. Every time Jun-hyeok smiles in front of me, every time his gaze wavers, I feel the shards of the glass my ex flung graze my nose. Same fragrance, same temperature. Why do we roam the world searching for the exact flavor, the exact degree of warmth, the exact brand of madness?
Is what I believe I love—no, what I mistake for love—simply the very way I hurt?
Two women, one red blouse
Seo-jin, 38, two years divorced, runs a tiny café. She has been seeing Do-yoon for five months. Tonight he carries a small box; inside, a white sheet titled “Prenuptial Agreement.” He smiles. “Seo-jin, let’s really begin. Let’s forget everything you told me about your ex yesterday.”
She nods.
But after he falls asleep, she unlocks his phone. The search bar still holds the phrase: “apology to my ex-wife.” Her hand trembles. Last night she too wrote “I’m sorry” to her ex-husband, deleted it, then wrote it again.
Yuna, 29, six months divorced, celebrates her first 100 days with Jae-min. He hands her a scarlet blouse. She smiles, then remembers: the day her ex-husband bought the same red blouse in vogue. That night she wept on the doorstep for over an hour.
Jae-min pats her shoulder. “Try it on—you’ll look beautiful.”
Through the curtain she watches the street, leaning into Jae-min’s arms, thinking: One day, just like before, he’ll love something more than me.
Why do we pick the flower that blooms atop a grave?
Studies show that 76 percent of divorcees choose new partners whose dispositions mirror their exes. Familiarity is a narcotic. The brain memorizes painful patterns and turns even that pain into a comfort zone.
The 3 a.m. my ex came home shouting—Jun-hyeok texts at the identical hour: “Running late, sorry.” Same sentence, same time. And still I wait for those fingers. A body that remembers agony cannot live without it.
I don’t love you. Through you I love the version of me who keeps surviving.
Like a toe sliced away
Jun-hyeok clasps my hand—warm. I don’t let go.
But.
I still keep the last words I exchanged with my ex locked inside my mouth: “Yeah, we were both fools then.” I wait for them to slip out in the new man’s voice. I lie to myself that I won’t repeat the same mistake. Yet I already know.
Trying to fill the absence of the one who’s gone, we erase even the warmth of the one who’s here.
Tonight, when Jun-hyeok strokes my hair beside the bed, what do you feel? Is it his hand, or your own fear wearing his fingers?